


Mine

by Kytt



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: AU, Bottom Leonard Snart, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, M/M, Mild S&M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possessive Behavior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-07-10 23:59:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7013935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kytt/pseuds/Kytt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is a work of fiction.  None of the characters mentioned belong to me and I do not profit from this work.</p>
<p>Diverges from The Flash S2 - Episode 9.</p>
<p>EDIT:  Bottom!Len tag added, because Gods forfend that a fan-fic should make anyone uncomfortable.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Mine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RedHead](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedHead/gifts).



> This is a work of fiction. None of the characters mentioned belong to me and I do not profit from this work.
> 
> Diverges from The Flash S2 - Episode 9.
> 
> EDIT: Bottom!Len tag added, because Gods forfend that a fan-fic should make anyone uncomfortable.

If he were to go back to when it all started, it would have been that night at the West house. Flattened against the wall, hand wrapped around his throat and every inch, of that long, powerful body pressed up against him.  Len thought it was his breath alone that came a little quicker, because lying to himself was a waste of time and wishes were something that other people made.

 

Less than a month later, a break-in gone wrong.  He’s playing diversion, calling too much attention to himself, giving Mic and Lisa valuable moments to get away - and that WILL be the first and last time EVER that he trusts second-hand blue-prints, no matter how ‘reliable’ Mic’s source might be, or how easy the job.   Trapped, cornered like a rat in that damn warehouse, alarm going off, cops surrounding the building, and more on the way, the Flash showing up was just the icing on his already toppling cake.  Planning on handing me over to the cops, Flash? He asks before Barry can launch into today’s version of  disappointment and hopeful redemption, but the Flash just stands there, all moss-green eyes and disapproval, and Len only likes tension when  _he’s_  the one causing it.  He takes a breath, read to toss out another quip, and he’s up against the wall – Christmas all over again - Barry pressed up against him, heat and red leather, only this time he isn’t threatening, he’s…. he’s  _kissing_  him.  Right there in the grimy warehouse, sirens blaring outside, and cops about to break in, and it’s the hottest thing ever. Barry doesn’t just kiss.  He kisses like it’s an Olympic event and he’s fighting for gold.   He kisses like Len’s mouth is a warring country, and he’s  _invading_ , laying siege with tongue and teeth and it’s raw and obscene, and Len doesn’t ever want it to stop.   And he’ll shoot anyone who tries to claim that he whimpers, because of course it stops.  They’re standing a few klicks away, facing off like a pair of gunfighters, and Len isn’t sure which of them is breathing harder.

Mine, the kid says. And his voice is low and harsh, like he’s been screaming, or maybe it’s just the memory of the kiss setting fire in his throat, like it is in Len’s.  No one touches you, but me, Cold.   And he’s gone.   And Len is alone, cold gun secure in its holster, lips more than a little bruised, not entirely sure what the fuck just happened, but Leonard Stark is not a man to look a gift horse in the mouth.

The next time he sees Barry, is less than a week later.  Len’s celebrating a particularly successful heist – overconfident morons and their ‘high tech’ security - a thousand dollar hooker, room at the Plaza, and 20 year old bourbon.   The hooker has the face of a pre-Raphaelite angel, and the filthy mouth of an Italian dock-worker.   He had just started using that mouth on Len, when the door bursts open to an all too familiar, scarlet speedster.

Get out, he growls, not sounding like himself, and Len wonders for a moment if Zoom didn’t steal Barry’s voice along with his speed, but there’s no mistaking those eyes, or that mouth, and he licks his lips involuntarily thinking of their kiss.

The rent-a-boy doesn’t wait to get asked twice, just grabs his pants and sashays through the open door - throwing one envious look over his shoulder at Barry’s leather-wrapped ass.

Len has no clue what’s going on, so he reclines back on the bed, cock flushed and on display, glistening with Marco’s spit.   Why Flash, he drawls lazily, stalling for time, trying to figure out how the kid tracked him down this time.  It’s not like the Plaza is his usual hangout, not even Mic knows he comes here.   To what do I owe this visit?   Are you here to defend the rights of the sex-workers of America?  Those hard working boys and girls do deserve representation, but they should have no complaints about me – not only do I always use protection, I pay in advance.  

The kid doesn’t say anything.  He just stands there, breathing hard through his nose, fists clenching at his sides, like he’s ready to tear Len apart, and holding on to control by a fingernail’s desperate grip.

If you’re going to take me in Flash, get it over with, already, Len tells him, the anticipation is killing me.

Barry takes a half-step forward, molasses slow, shivering visibly now, and Len offers a prayer to which ever Gods may be listening that if the Flash has finally lost it, and he’s about to become his first victim, Mic take care of Lisa.   Barry just glances down at Len, sprawled out and naked on his bed, and launches himself at him, red suit and all.

And oh fuck, the warehouse was nothing compared to this.   Len gasps, head falling back.  The kid’s all over him, lips and teeth and strong, clever hands, and leather… damnable leather.   Len’s fingers tug, scraping over it, until he finds the hidden zippers, and starts pulling, grasping – get this fucking thing off already! – Barry shimmers and then naked and back on stop of Snart.  The kid is all miles of skin and burning heat, and Len wonders if this is what Christmas and birthdays are like for ‘regular’ people, being given everything they have ever wanted and didn’t know to ask for.    Barry is sleek and muscular, not an ounce of fat on him anywhere, and he’s hard against Len’s thigh.  Hands gripping Len’s arms, mouth laying waste to Len’s throat, and the kid’s moaning, growling, shaking with need, and that’s something that Len understands.   It’s a little awkward, Barry doesn’t stop moving, and those hands are holding him better than any manacles ever did, but he manages to wrap his fingers around Barry’s cock, giving it a inquiring squeeze.   Barry moans into the crook of Len’s neck, - and  _vibrates_? – like he’s ready to come apart just from this, just from Len’s hand on his cock.  Len’s always liked taking things apart, finding their secrets and learning what made them tick, and he would like nothing more than to take the Flash apart one moan at a time.  Fingers barely slicked with Barry’s pre-cum, and it’s not enough, but it doesn’t look like he’s going to be able to go anywhere, much less out of bed to get lube, but he’s always been clever, so he makes do with what he has.  Running his thumb over the head of Barry’s cock, smiling broadly when the kid makes another rasping, guttural noise in the back of his throat, more precum and it’s good… oh fuck the kid feels good in his hand.  Like static electricity, like a live wire, his entire body shivering   _vibrating_  every time Snart’s hand moves, teeth down into his neck and it’s oh fuckohfuckohfuckLen and comes with a deafening Roar, spilling, scalding hot over Len’s hand and stomach, and Len thinks he might have more burn scars to add to his collection.

The hands holding him down let go, and Barry pulls back.  Len’s breath catches in his throat.  There is something so vulnerable, so  _exposed_  about the want,  _the need_  in the lust filled eyes, and he’s never felt more like a thief than at that moment, stealing something that’s so freely given.  Barry doesn’t say anything. 

Eyes run down the length of Snart’s body, take in his semen drying on Len’s abs, Len’s cock, hard and now leaking adding to the mess, licks his lips over a predatory, wicked leer, that looks lost and out of place on Barry’s boyish face and  -

swallows Snart’s cock down to the root in one smooth, scorching motion.

Len gasps, eyes rolling in the back of his head, surprise, as much as anything else clouding his vision, and who knew the kid had skills?   Barry’s mouth is wet furnace heat, clamping around him, swallowing him whole, tongue twisting up and around the head of his cock, hands branding their imprints onto Len’s hips, and Barry is.... is going to – stop.  He’s going to stop?  Why the hell did he stop?  Is this some new redemption tactic?   Be good or you don’t get to cum?   And Len is prepared to be very  _very_  good if Barry would just finish what he was doing.

You’re mine, Snart, the kid growls, hands tightening on Len’s hips and oh yes, those  _will_  leave a mark.  Mine.

Wordlessly, Len nods, drunk on sensation – and lack of it – too many thoughts running through his head, swallowing because he’s not sure he could speak even if he wanted to.   Barry between his legs, lips bruised, dark hair tussled, cheeks flushed, still wrecked from what he –  _Len_  – did to him, and he’s never looked more gorgeous.

Apparently that’s good enough, the kid moans, like going down on Len is the greatest thing ever, like he’s the one getting a gift, and swallows Len down again, one hand slipping down, over the his balls, finger just teasing at his ass, not quite slipping in and oh Gods, he’s vibrating, tongue and throat and fingers vibrating in rhythm, clenching around him, and Len sees white, coming… coming down the Flash’s throat.

When he can see again, Barry is still kneeling between his legs, cock hard, and jutting – hasn’t this kid ever heard of refractory? –  finger slick with cool lubricant, slowly gliding inside Len, crooking just so, and oh fuckfuckfuck his skin feels too hot, too tight like it might crack, and there are two fingers inside him, twisting and scissoring -  _vibrating_  Goddammit! – Len is moaning, twisting on the slick hotel sheets, and he’s  _not_  begging, that pleasepleaseplease is  _not_  coming from his throat, that is  _not_  his voice begging pleaseBarrymoreplease, three fingers and it’s too soon, fingers gone – and yes, he does whimper, St. Joan oh the pyre would wimper! – only to be replaced by Barry’s cock and oh…   He’s full and complete and Barry is moving above him, sleek and sure, setting a punishing rhythm that leaves Len to wonder if he’ll be moving the next morning, let alone walking and it’s good.  So good… too good – he’s dry-cuming and it hurts, and it’s good, and this is what being struck by lightning -  _fucking lighting_  - must feel like, falling into a white hot abyss.

When he can see again, Barry is gone, leaving trails of semen, inside and out and fingerprints, red, already turning purple on Len’s hips and a hickey the size of Kansas –  _we’re not in Kansas anymore Toto –_ on his neck.  

The third time Len sees Barry it’s at a gala.  A fancy museum gala.   The sort where tuxes are a must, and ‘anonymous’ donations are made to secure gold-foil invitation.  Drunks with platinum cards instead of personalities, bored society wives, dripping in diamonds and looking for a good time, and Len and Mic casing the place and its patrons, looking for their next big hit.

Mic’s not one for mingling, so he’s working the kitchen, scoping out back exists, chatting up the staff, learning as much as he can, which leaves Len to ‘work’ the front of the house, Armani tux, shiny shoes and all.

He’s been trying to peel a blonde that’s attached herself to him, off his arm the past half hour, but she’s just this side of falling over, rich and spoiled, won’t take the hint, and he doesn’t want to risk making a scene.  Len settles for stealing her bracelet and necklace – Lisa likes shiny things – and is about to take the earrings when he spots a familiar mop of hair across the room.   Len doesn’t get a chance to speculate what exactly Barry is doing there, because the look in the kid’s eyes is enough to give even Captain Cold pause.   The Flash’s eyes are burning with a frigid, icy wrath, and Len wonders if it’s because he noticed the theft of the jewelry or if he knows the blonde personally.  He blinks and Barry is gone.

Excuse me, all too familiar voice, and a hand on his shoulder.   Len and the blonde turn, and Barry is there.  Len’s mouth starts to water, because, damn, doesn’t he look even better close up.   Perfectly edible.  All lean legs, and trim waist, bow-tie tight around that swan-like neck, custom-made for Len’s teeth.   Snart takes an involuntary step forward, like the needle of a compass, pointing true North and Barry closes the distance, fingers on Len’s jaw and kisses the corner of his mouth, ever so lightly, tiny, innocent –  _claiming_ \- peck, pulling back with a smile that doesn’t do anything for the rage in his eyes.   The blonde giggles and slurs something about maybe a threesome the next time her husband is out of town, which neither Len nor Barry bother to validate with a response. Barry just grabs him by the wrist and is pulling, tugging him through the crowd, past galleries hung with priceless paintings and watchful security guards, down some service corridor, to a tiny room marked ‘Staff Only’.  It’s some sort of broom closet, and Len doesn’t spare a moment to wonder how Barry got a key for the place, because he’s shoved against the wall.  It’s really becoming a habit, Barry is holding him there with one hand, the other is slowly, and deliberately loosening that damnable tie, baring the hollow of his throat, like he knows  _precisely_  what he’s doing.   Len swallows, mouth watering, tailored pants are too tight just from this.   Barry’s hand on his chest and the barest glimpse of skin.

Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear, Snart, Barry whispers in his ear, low and quiet, like a desperately shared secret.   No one’s hands on you but mine.   No ones. You’re  _mine._

Len’s wrists held in an iron grip, Barry’s tie tight around them, and he’s pushed down to his knees, unmistakable sound of a zipper in his ears, and ludicrous thoughts running through his head, like good thing his tux wasn’t rented, he’d never get the deposit back. Barry’s hand on his face, on his head is gentle, caressing, and Barry’s cock is in front of his face, long and slender and perfect like the man towering over him.  Len may not be able to vibrate on command, but he knows  _all_  the tricks, taking Barry into his willing mouth, licking and sucking, swallowing him deep into his throat, and Barry is moaning, shuddering, coming apart somewhere high above him, one hand still on Len’s face, the other holding him up against the wall, and Len wants to swallow that moan, feel it under his skin, but he’ll settle for swallowing Barry, licking his lips like the cat that’s gotten into the cream.

Len’s cock is aching for something resembling attention, but he’s happy where he is for now, Barry’s harsh breaths in his ears worth more than any stolen trinket.  Barry shifts, wraps an arm around his shoulders, and it’s a little awkward, hands still tied behind his back, but it’s hardly the first time, keeping his balance, as he’s pulled into to something resembling a kiss, one of those long-fingered hands wrapped around the back of his head, cradling it like he’s something fragile and precious, tongue deep in Len’s mouth, licking up every last trace of himself.   Len moans, dizzy with want, the cool silk of his shorts offering a whole different torment with a complete lack of friction.  Barry pulls him in closer, one thigh between Len’s legs, cock staining his tux further, Barry’s hand holding his bound wrists in one loose hand, arm around his shoulders, and Barry is all around him, teeth on Len’s throat and oh, that will leave a mark, and he hisses, moving into the bite, and it’s good, so good…

Barry’s turning him around, one arm across his shoulders, keeping him balanced, the other pulling down his pants.   Len gasps when a hot, slick finger penetrates him – and who carries lube in their tux?  But he’s all for being prepared – a second and third join not long after, curling up into his prostate and Len is moaning, thrusting against nothing and ohGodBarryfuck… fuckmefuckmefuck and yes!   Barry’s cock inside him, arms twisted awkwardly behind him, one arm pulling him close against a slender, tux-wrapped chest, hand on his cock, hot breath in his ear – Mine, Len.  You’re all mine.

_Yours._

Barry moans, moving faster, hand keeping time and it’s everything, its Barry’s teeth on the back of his neck, and Barry crying his name in his ear – Len! – as heat fills him, hand on his cock and if this is what being owned is like, Len is all for it, the world shatters, splinters in light,  as he comes screaming Barry’s name at the top of his lungs.

 

When he’s being honest with himself, Leonard Snart can admit that he’s a bit of a control freak.   OK.  If he’s being really honest, he’s a lot of a control freak. Everything is  _always_  planned to the last possible detail,  _every_  contingency accounted for and  _he’s_  the one who calls the shots.  He can’t recall the last time that he had bottomed –  _before Barry_  - and even then it’s  _his_  show and he sets the pace.

But finds that he  _likes_  the idea of being Barry’s.  OK, he’s fucking ecstatic over it.   The kid’s young and gorgeous and a fiend in the sack.  He likes the possessiveness.  Hell, he likes the jealousy – and tells the voice in the back of his head that sounds a little too much like Lisa’s to screw off when it tries to tell him that too much jealousy is not a healthy thing.  He doesn’t care.  He’s  _never had_  anyone being jealous over him before. He likes Barry showing up in unexpected, dangerous places, laying claim to what was ‘His’, leaving him feeling bruised, and marked and  _wanted_.   He likes waking  _next_  to Barry with fingerprints on his hips and the imprint of Barry’s teeth on his skin.   He likes trying to again and again, leaving marks on Barry perfect stretches of skin, watching the marks fade away under his disbelieving eyes.

Whatever happens next, however long whatever this thing they have lasts,  Len is OK with it.   Because the one thing Len knows for certain – possession works both ways – he may be Barry’s, but Barry is  _his_.

 

**Author's Note:**

> So a short while ago I was reading An All Too Jagged Snowflake, by RedHead - if you are part of the Coldflash fandom and you haven’t read it yet, stop reading this and go read that. No, really I mean it. 
> 
> Where was I?…. oh yes. So I was reading AATJS, and RedHead, she who is the Mistress of all things Distracting, maybe mentioned in her end-chapter notes - which are hilarious - that she had a real thing for Possessive!Barry. Oh dear. Well… that thought rather got lodged in my brain. And festered. And wouldn’t leave.
> 
> And then this happened. Since it's all RedHead’s fault, I'm giving it to her. I don’t think that it’s what RedHead had in mind. It’s not what I had in mind. Buuuut…. here it is.


End file.
